Fair warning: I feel that you'll yell at me less for being a terrible tease if I warn you that I'm going to be a terrible tease ahead of time. Also, to appease you, know that this is a cut in half chapter. I didn't get the time to finish it, so I'll post the smutty part by Saturday. I'm sorry. I just can't do random scenes of kink without build up. It's an awful vice. But... the porn will be quite porny. You have my word as a gentlewoman and a scholar.

Greg wasn't avoiding calling Sherlock for help. Really, he wasn't. There had only been two murders so far. And even though the details were eerily similar, it had to be three or more before they had an official problem. Molly hadn't even finished putting the meat puzzles back together yet. There wasn't a whole lot to be done. They couldn't even identify the victims by dental records.

Really, it was the kind of weird case they always called Sherlock on. It was inevitable. But still. It could be put off for just a bit longer.

"All right. Where is he?"

Greg jumped slightly at the noise—startled out of his thoughts. He'd been starting at photos of the crime scene for nearly an hour and he hadn't made any progress.

Sally Donovan was leaning against his doorframe, wearing a particularly sour expression.

"Sorry?" Greg blinked. He was so tired. When did he last sleep? He couldn't even remember.

"The Freak," Sally said through gritted teeth. "They just found another body. The press is going insane. This is the point where he'd usually strut in and solve the bloody thing in less than twelve hours."

"Oh," Greg swallowed hard. Sally Donnovan was more than a bit scary at normal times. But the exhaustion somehow seemed to sharpen her edges rather than soften them. "I thought you hated it when I call him in."

"I do. He's an insufferable prick. But this thing has been going on for nearly three weeks, and we have zero leads. I'm not going to tell you to call him. God knows. I'm just asking why you haven't yet, when normally you'd be dragging him in when we found meat puzzle number one."

Greg let out a long steady breath. Maybe his eyes fluttered shut for half a second.

Donovan snapped her fingers. "Oi! Lestrade! God you look awful."

"Yeah, well, none of us are very pretty when we've got a serial killer on the loose." The DI ran his fingers through his short grey hair. "I suppose I'll text him once Molly finishes putting the bodies back together."

And really, there shouldn't have been an odd heat prickling in his stomach at the mere thought of interacting with Sherlock. But he couldn't help it. They hadn't spoken to each other since… well since Sherlock had showed up at Greg's flat that night. At this point he wasn't sure if Sherlock was waiting impatiently for him to make another move—or if the rather eccentric man had gotten bored and moved on.

"Right," Sally nodded. Then paused for a moment. "If you tell him we need him—"

"I'd never dream of it," Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Good."

And she was gone as abruptly as she appeared.

Greg took a few moments to steady himself. Then he called down to Molly. The bodies were nearly put back together and she was working on getting identifications through DNA. Greg has always been the sort of man to bite the bullet, rather than put things off once he knew they absolutely needed to be done. It was still rather early in the evening. Perhaps he'd be safe.

A text was less intrusive than a phone call.

I've got two meat puzzles at St. Bart's, and another one just found. Interested?

Greg stared at his mobile for twenty minutes before it chimed. He was almost afraid to open it.

Bring all the crime scene photos you have by my flat - SH

You're not going to come down here?

Why should I? You're the one that needs my help. It only makes sense that you come here - SH

You've already got it solved.

Usually Sherlock would be chomping at the bit to go to the new crime scene—if he was just settling for photos, he was no longer interested. The case wasn't boring, so that meant he already knew what had happened.

I just need to confirm my conclusions. Bring the photos. The door will be open - SH

Greg didn't want to go. Well… all right, maybe he did. But he knew it was a bad idea. Still, for the good of the public, he pulled on his coat and grabbed every photo they'd taken—sliding them into a manila envelope before walking out of his office and locking the door behind them.

Their floor of the building was relatively empty. Most people had gone home for the day hours ago. Even when Greg had a family to go home to, he'd always made a habit of staying late at the office until the culprit was found.

Perhaps it was why he no longer had a wife, and barely saw his daughter.

He strode through the rows of cubicles and pressed the down button for the lift. Soon he was in his cruiser, taking a familiar pattern of turns towards Sherlock's flat. He'd been there on drugs busts, and for other miscellaneous case-related reasons. But he'd never been quite so nervous. Even after he found a parking spot, he took his time walking up to the building. A smart, brick affair, that he doubted Sherlock paid for on his own.

Between the posh accent and the flat that no junkie could finance through a sleuthing hobby—Greg had ascertained that Sherlock came from money. Perhaps it somewhat explained that bastard's sense of entitlement.

Still, he rang the doorbell with caution. He stood for no more than a few moments before the buzzer sounded. He turned the knob and climbed up towards the third floor. Sherlock was in 304. The door stood slightly ajar, and invitation for him to walk inside.

Sherlock sat on the black leather couch, with his legs crossed, holding a glass full of what looked like whiskey. He half raised an eyebrow as Greg walked inside and palmed the door shut behind him.

Greg didn't wait to be invited to sit down. He simply plopped into an armchair beside the couch and tossed the manila folder down on the coffee table.

"Well that's a fine hello," Sherlock smirked and sipped his glass.

"I'm to tired to play any games," Greg let out a long sigh.

Sherlock leaned forward, elbows on his knees and began studying the glossy photographs. Greg was thankful for the small silence. Sherlock sat back after a moment, looking smug as he usually did.

"I thought so," the taller man took another sip of his drink.

"What?"

"The bodies aren't fresh victims. They're cadavers. The puzzles are coming in drums full of formaldehyde, aren't they?"

"Yeah," Greg nodded.

"Well, that's not to preserve the puzzles. It's because they were already preserved before the cutting. From the precision of the dismemberment, you're definitely looking for a surgeon. I'd recommend looking at a Dr. Wallace Franklyn. He used to be a surgeon, but now he works in a funeral home near the river. He's been running experiments on bodies that were meant to be cremated—giving the families cigarette ash instead of their loved one's remains. But a few people have become suspicious. Now it would appear he's just trying to get rid of the evidence before anybody comes by with a warrant."

Greg stared open mouthed for a moment. "So there's no serial killer?"

"No," Sherlock chuckled, "just a mad scientist that decided to get a bit too artful with his body disposal."

"God, I don't think I've ever heard better news."

"Would you like a drink?" Sherlock gestured to the bottle of whiskey sitting on the corner of the table.

Greg's relief evaporated, much the way of water on hot brick. "Oh, I'd better not," he started carefully, "I should really get back down to the Yard. Everybody's in a bit of a panic…"

"So text them what I just told you." Sherlock reached for the empty glass by the bottle and began pouring.

"There's still lots of, um—paperwork to do." Greg looked at the floor.

"Really, Lestrade. If you don't want to shag me, that's fine. But I don't understand the point. It's already happened once. I don't know what moral qualms you could possibly have left." Sherlock said it so casually Greg almost missed the meaning of the sentence.

"I… look, Sherlock it's not you I just… what happened was… well I rather lost control, all right?"

"Mmm. Yes. It was quite lovely. I had the bruises on my neck for days."

"It's not healthy, Sherlock! God, I could have really hurt you."

"Isn't that the point?"

Greg tried to take a moment to collect himself. But then Sherlock slid the drink across the table so it was right in front of him.

"Just a glass of whiskey, Lestrade," his voice was deceptively calm. "Text Donovan what I told you, and relax for a little while. You've earned it."

"Don't think I can't see what you're doing!" Greg leveled a finger at Sherlock. "You're trying to liquor me up so you can take advantage."

"Is it really taking advantage if I want you to tie me to my bed and fuck me until I can't walk properly for a week?"

Greg opened his mouth to reply, but he couldn't get any words to come out. Instead he let out a frustrated grunt and downed the whiskey in one gulp. The burn helped settle his mind slightly. He took out his phone and began sending off the appropriate texts.

He heard a clatter and jingle of metal, then a clanking sound. His eyes flashed up. Sherlock was looking at him innocently. Greg's handcuffs gleamed, sitting in the middle of the coffee table.

"God fucking damn it," Greg muttered mostly to himself.

"To be fair, you never really stood a chance," Sherlock smirked.

"Quiet, or I'm going to choke you with my tie."

"Is that a promise?"

Greg began to loosen his tie as he finished sending off the last text that he absolutely needed to send.

"Get over here, slut," his voice dropped to a lower, more dangerous register.

Sherlock slid off the couch onto his knees and shuffled over to where Greg was sitting. The DI looped his loose tie around Sherlock's neck and tugged it sharply—enough to start to restrict airflow, but not to cut it off completely. The taller man's eyes widened, dark with lust. Greg pulled the tie even tighter, making it nearly impossible for Sherlock to breathe.

"I am going to fucking destroy you," Greg barely whispered.

Sherlock let out a strangled moan.

Well, if Greg was going to hell, at least he'd have attractive company.

Aggghhh. I know. Saturday. There will be smut by Saturday. Scout's honor!